"Blushing is the color of virtue."<\em>
You melt like a sigh
on the lips of angels.
the paleness of injustice,
your own hands tangled up,
aw, the square stare of the truth,
impassable duel of the pupils.
Your hands are filled with the face of our tragedy,
witherering among the sidereal flowers,
a cursed sunset,
a lamp lit in the wee hours,
no truce is better than advancing to the edge of yourself,
throwing yourself into the fire of the stars,
crossing the hard core time;
with flimsy memories
descending into a blessed hell.
You want to die with the lamp lit,
not talk about anything that gives you away
when you smoke compulsively,
tramontane and bold,
you know how pliable is the scroll of fear.
You are bad, Diogenes,
with your airs of moldy poet,
twitching the neurons of those who feel
that Truth is even more pliable,
Come here, my ox, my friend.
Copyright © Roxane Aristy | Year Posted 2019